


to sully a body with blackened tears

by SqueakyClam



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: 'cause im lazy, Angst, Embrace the Void Ending (Hollow Knight), Everyone but the Knight/Lord of Shades is only mentioned, Everyone is Dead, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, MOST of the characters in the game are in here but I chose not to tag everyone, Not Beta Read, Void is dangerous ya'll!, everyone dies, horrible horrible angst, wrote this on a weird impulse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SqueakyClam/pseuds/SqueakyClam
Summary: Never shall the light shine in one's eyes ever again.An overexposure to void is fatal.This is learned the hard way.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 71





	to sully a body with blackened tears

**Author's Note:**

> Oops
> 
> Really not sure what made me do this but uhh.......... angst time  
> This was all wrote in one sitting, only read back over once or twice, and as the tags said: Wrote purely on impulse.
> 
> SOrry in advAnce

Loneliness never came as burden to them.

After all, with no mind to think nor a voice to cry for company, why should they yearn for the presence of another?  
They shouldn’t. They couldn’t. They wouldn’t.  
And that’s how it was meant to be.

One does not realize their effects on another if one is never around to witness it. Or never around enough to cause it.  
The Ghost of Hallownest had very little purpose to linger by the insects they encountered, so they often chose not to. A passing glance was the most one would get, unless one had words to share. The vessel would halt, crane their head back, and give the illusion that they listened to every syllable bestowed upon them. Whether the information given was processed or not, that remained a question unanswered.

The only insects that the ghost intentionally frequented were the shopkeepers of Dirtmouth and the town’s kind elder.  
To say they _“intentionally”_ returned to the Elderbug may have been a stretch, however, as a “conversation” would begin any moment the vessel sat at the bench. The Elder was a lonely bug, to be sure, so any company he was given was never taken for granted.  
The vessel could never understand that reasoning, as the vessel could not understand loneliness.

Given that this insect was an elder, the gradual raspy nature of his voice and the occasional shuddering cough never struck the ghost as anything out of the ordinary. So, they never dwelled on it.

Likewise, while the vessel _certainly_ never meant to encounter this bug more than once, often times they’d find themselves crossing paths with a stubborn, loud-mouthed individual who bore some odd similarities to the ghost themselves. Their talks were always one-sided, as any meeting with the ghost tended to be, but the shouting insults and belittling every time they met stained the cranky bug’s voice into their mind.

So, once that bug moved to Dirthmouth permanently, in a constant ramble to the poor girl that adored him; the scratchiness of his tone – while certainly worsening – never stood out to the ghost.  
So, they never dwelled on it.

Regarding that girl, the ghost _had_ noticed when she began to change. When they first saved her from the perils of the Fungal Wastes, she stuttered and stumbled over her words, but her voice remained clear and sweet. The ghost sometimes found themselves sitting beside her in Dirthmouth, long before the arrival of the troublesome nuisance so-called knight.

She rarely ever spoke following their first meeting, her anxiety reducing her to a shy quietness every time the vessel grew near. Despite how she seldom said a word in their presence, it was hard to ignore the way she was forced to clear her throat around them. How it almost seemed as if she had something to spit out, but never did, in fear of embarrassment.  
The ghost knew not to think of this sort of thing. The ghost knew not to think at all. They didn’t understand the concept of embarrassment, but that is the excuse they gave for her behavior.  
So, they never dwelled on it.

Outside of Dirtmouth, and besides the few shopkeepers that remained in Hallownest’s ruin, the vessel hardly visited anyone. For going out of their way to seek out another bug, if not for the purpose of aiding their mission, seemed arbitrary and pointless. They had no will nor reason to go searching for friendly faces, and they had no will nor reason to feel upset should they never find the face in question.  
So, they never did.

Despite their nonexistent efforts, they often reacquainted with another traveler, donning a mask too large for himself and somehow proving a fountain of knowledge. Specifically, the pillbug would speak of Hallownest’s history; the wonders it must’ve once been, the strange sadness that hung over the caverns, and the odd way that every location felt somehow familiar.  
The ghost had no interest in the history of this destroyed kingdom, yet they always found themselves intently listening to the bug’s musings. They felt a sense of comfort around this insect, yet that in of itself was foreign and strange.  
The vessel is not meant to feel comfort, as they vessel is not meant to feel at all.  
And that’s how it was meant to be.

When that insect aided the vessel in their battle with a Dreamer’s guardian, subsequently revealing that the mask they wore belonged to the owner of those Archives… the change in his voice seemed to spur on from the realization of his age, as it finally caught up with him.  
When the ghost met that bug for the last time, gazing out over the shimmering Blue Lake with a blissful acceptance that the vessel couldn’t understand… the hoarse way he spoke left a pang in the vessel’s absent heart. It had to do with his age, they were sure – akin to the Elderbug.  
So, when they sat beside him, joining him in his – unbeknownst to them – final moments, they did not question why he coughed so heavily.

They only wished for a way of tears when they left and returned again, faced with a lone nail in the sand.  
And they couldn’t understand why.

Their sister was not an uncommon sighting, either.  
She was cold to them, closed off and spoke curtly; hardly given them a chance to do much of anything before she’d flee the scene or challenge them to battle. Every mark of her needle stung and pained them, for more than what was physical. No success against her felt like a proud victory, especially considering how battered and bruised they would emerge from it.

While initially regarding them with a sort of disgust and disdain, her attitude began to shift over time, either from her warming up to them or realizing their usefulness. A clash at the edge of the kingdom ended with a surprising praise from her, and her decision to urge them onward; to uncover what had befallen this kingdom and take up the mantle of king, if only to bring about this ruins’ freedom from Infection.

Most shocking of all was when she chose to save them, diving into the collapsing structure of the Wyrm’s corpse and zipping them back to safety.  
The ghost chose to believe it was because of their supposed worth. If they could prove an end to the Infection’s curse, of course she’d prefer them alive. They were a tool meant to accomplish a task, and that’s how it was meant to be.

And in order to accomplish that task, there was yet another Dreamer to put to true rest.  
And with her death, their sister sat vigil beside her altar, softly explaining her relation to the Dreamer… a daughter mourning her mother would not be the saddest sight they’d see, but the ghost wanted – _wanted_ – nothing more than to sit beside their sister. To comfort her, to do whatever they must to help her.  
When she suddenly coughed into her hand, then revealing a black substance dripping down from her claws… her eyes widened, her voice turned sharp – yet noticeably burdened – and she demanded the vessel leave her be.

With no room for question, the ghost left without a word.  
She was grieving, and it was not their place to be there for her. She was grieving, so she was choking on sobs. She was grieving, and that’s what that strange dull liquid was spurred on from.  
Surely.

So, they never dwelled on it.

The path they were meant to take was not the one they chose. Once the last Dreamer was finished, they had every reason to enter that temple. They had every reason to face their “hollow” sibling. They had every reason to strike down the Infection at its heart, with the help of their sister, who they knew was waiting for them.

Instead, they found a mystical being in the Junk Pit below the kingdom.

Upon entering her dreams, and ignoring her scathing reprimands, the ghost found themselves in a world of Gods and battle.  
Something compelled them to take this challenge.  
Something told them it was the right thing to do.  
Some would argue that as a conscience, or a desire, but the vessel does not possess either of those.  
So, they fought.

And fought.

And _fought._

_And fought…_

And whilst they fought, they thought.  
Thinking was something new to them.

They thought of the bugs they knew. The Elder, the girl they rescued, the traveling pillbug, their sister, and even that irritating, ranting bother they often wish they hadn’t saved.

They thought of the cartographer, whom recently had trouble sleeping due to the way he sputtered and choked on coughs.

They thought of the cartographer’s wife, whose mild irritation seemed to worsen as she, too, felt her throat grow sore.

They thought of the Great Nailsage, and how his hearty shouts soon fell quieter as he found it harder to yell.

They thought of the Relic Seeker, and how he turned them away one last time, his words slurring together as he tried not to hack up whatever was caught in his throat.

They thought of how strange it was, how their voices changed, how their tones shifted – yet their eyes were never orange. Infection was not the thing that claimed them, as their eyes… their eyes…  
Never orange, only the darkest black; one light could not reflect off.

One light would never reflect off again.

For the light was vanquished, and the void united; conquering and smothering any glow that dared shine.

The Godseeker, the mystic being; her eyes poured out the blackest of tears, crashing down like waterfalls onto the ground beneath her. Every plate of her chitin leaked the substance, until her mandibles finally opened, and a sea of void escaped her. Her body consumed, the Lord of Shades born again, and an explosion of void claiming the surrounding area as its own.

Said Lord, now soaked in its void blood, rose from the debris it lay upon and gave a piercing shriek. Every agony they felt, every tear they wished to spill, every bit of their frustration and sorrow culminated into one, heaven-splitting cry.

It echoed and reverberated off every wall, the distant balloon creatures suddenly combusting as void tore them apart from the inside out. Before the Infection had time to die and expel from their bodies, they were sentenced to death by the entire abyss’s great suffering.  
The void was abused, wronged and tattered, and they couldn’t stop the screeches they came from them.

Until silence fell, and the Lord collapsed, sinking into the sewage-turned-void and half hoping to never surface again.

But then, the worse possible thing happened.  
They thought.

A void given mind, given focus, even… It’s a dangerous thing. It’s not to be meddled with, and it’s not to be near.  
The Lord knew no better. The Lord didn’t know the consequences. The Lord only wished to see their friends – yes, their friends – again.  
They could speak now. They could talk with them, laugh with them, cry with them. They had a will to break, a mind to think.  
And they willed for companionship.

They wanted loneliness no more.

So, they rose. They paid no mind to the creatures around them that fell dead, splattering into puddles of what came gushing from their mouths.

They crawled up and out, as if clawing their way from a coffin of solitude. Every being that hadn’t died already with Infection no longer sustaining them was sure to fall to the void. The void allowed no survivors, the void allowed no light to shine in a bug’s eyes – the void consumed, and that’s how it was meant to be.

In the City they knew remained the Relic Seeker. They knew he often seemed agitated by their presence, but this time, they only wanted to hear his explanations of Hallownest’s history. They wanted to listen to his translations of the stone tablets they brought to him, and how he diligently studied every scuff mark on the seals they provided.  
They wanted to thank him, and they wanted to apologize for the times they had bothered him.  
They wanted, they wanted, they-

…Desires are destructive. One’s desire can cloud their mind and blind them to all else. Desires were not meant to be had, and especially not by void.

There’s no way the Lord could’ve known, so one cannot blame them for the death of the Relic Seeker.

One cannot blame them when one sees the pool of void he lay in, eyes teeming with charcoal tears that stained his shell and beard.

The Lord cried out at the sight, opting to try focusing soul into the poor bug, but only subjecting him to more pain – as he blinked awake for a moment, only for more void to come spilling from his mouth, and his life was lost again.

The Lord refused this. The Lord refused to believe that this happened to the rest of those they held dear.

The Lord, with the possibility of that in mind, had to make sure they were safe.

The Lord could not have known any better. It is no fault of theirs.

And as they desperately climbed up through a kingdom’s deathbed, they were forced to witness the unbearable, horrifying truth.  
They were forced into clarity, realizing the unmistakable cause of the grating coughs and sputters.

_They caused this.  
It’s all because of them._

_It’s all my fault._

A mad noble laughed no more.

A poor thief never stole again.

A scavenger never found who she was looking for.

A charm-lover lay slumped over her desk.

Three nailmasters never got to reunite.

A fool hung limply from the chains that suspended him.

A colosseum fell silent.

A father never saw his many children metamorphosize.

A stag’s old legs gave out from underneath him.

A confessor fell underwhelmed by regrets.

_A blue lovestruck girl was never seen again._

_The one she adored rambled no more._

_A cartographer and his wife lay side-by-side in silence._

_A Nailsage was left wondering if his pupils ever reconciled._

_No one heard the Elder’s last breath._

_A sister’s red cloak was forever coated with black._

The void is not meant to desire.

The void is not meant to seek out others.

The void is deadly, the void is fatal; an overexposure promises nothing but death to those around it.

A King’s fate to void may be deserved, but the fate a Lord brings will ensure the reign of void and void alone.

Never shall a light shine again.

Loneliness never came as burden to them.

It shouldn’t, it couldn’t, it wouldn’t.

For the good of all.

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration here was  
> 1) the idea that the Pale King died due to void, but not necessarily the void fighting against him; just the whole thing about being surrounded by void (Kingsmoulds/the Pure Vessel) all the time, and working with it continuously. Bad effects  
> 2) Yknow that uhhh noble that's vaguely implied to have owned the Pleasure House? With the Collector? N when you see them their eyes are dripping with void? Yea  
> 3) I see an overexposure to void working sorta like Mad Hatter Syndrome/Mercury poisoning! I don't think I depicted that very well here but hsgkjh u kno, it's different when the entire void arises and decides All Life Must Be Destroyed (even if ghost/the lord of shades is like "NOO")
> 
> UH well yeahhahe! alright back to my zote nonsense


End file.
